The Portion That Was Left
by rmonroe
Summary: Aramis is glad to be back in Paris but a piece of his heart remains at the monastery. Constance helps as usual. Spoilers for Season 3.


It appears a new fandom has captured my attention. :)

* * *

Constance pulled the covers off quietly and avoided the floorboards that creaked on her way out of the room, careful not to wake d'Artagnan. She lingered for a moment in the doorway, watching him in the dim light and reassuring herself that he was actually here now, and not just another dream from the last four years.

She crept down the hall toward the barracks, barefoot. They trusted her, these boys, but not with everything. Not with their hurts or their homesickness or their fear. Not yet, at least. So she would slip her shoes from her feet and slip between bunks in silence listening for restless hearts. She had learned quickly that a glass of wine or even water, a motherly touch on a shoulder or brow, or a kind word went a long way for someone who had so little and from whom so much was expected.

Tonight was no different, though she was bone-weary after all that had happened. And maybe it was her heart that was restless now. All of them back at once, back from the dead almost, was an overwhelming thing.

They - Aramis, Athos, Porthos -were all staying at the Garrison tonight, and everyone had stayed up late, the cadets listening to tales of the war amid much drinking. She would have to restock the entire kitchen after the damage Porthos alone had done.

She was walking past their doors now, and it was so late it was early. They were, no doubt, sleeping the evening off. But a sudden sound in the silence made her pause at Aramis' door. The restless sounds of someone who wanted nothing more than to sleep but couldn't. She knew the feeling well.

She hesitated for a moment, thinking it wasn't her place, that perhaps she didn't know Aramis as well as she used to. Then she knocked lightly on the door.

The restless sounds paused. "Aramis?" she called softly.

He opened the door, his eyes wide and bright in the dark and his hair disheveled. When he saw her, he gave her a little bow. "How can I be of service?" he asked, a slight smirk suggesting the formality was mostly a joke.

"I'm making sure everyone is comfortable," she said, suddenly a bit embarrassed to have bothered him.

He raised his eyebrows. "In the middle of the night?"

"An odd habit, I know." She felt the need to explain herself. "Sometimes the cadets feel … Well, sometimes they need …"

"Ah," he said, his smirk growing into a gentle smile. "They're very young, aren't they?"

She nodded, grateful he seemed to understand. "And some of them very far from home."

He nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before coming back up to her face. "But I am no longer very young and this _is_ my home."

She shifted awkwardly. "It sounded like you weren't sleeping well. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

He shook his head and opened the door further. "You haven't. I'm very difficult to disturb. Maybe you'd like to come in?" He moved back and turned to light a candle, hands sure in the dark and as the light bathed his face dark circles under his eyes were apparent.

"Is it the bed?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe. "d'Artagnan is sleeping with a board under the sheets because he says straw is too soft. I can find you one, if you like."

Aramis returned the smile and sank onto the bed. "We had beds at the monastery." He pressed a hand into the mattress. "Probably softer than this one, actually." He stared at the far wall.

Constance still felt like an intruder despite his invitation, and she remained in the doorway. But something told her Aramis had more to say. "You didn't talk much about the monastery. What was it like?"

He gave a low chuckle and looked down at his hands. "You don't want to hear that," he assured her. "It was very dull compared to the war."

Was that what was bothering him? That his comrades had been in the thick of battle while he'd been reading and tending gardens? "I wouldn't mind a little dullness now and again," she said, teasing just a little. "I'd rather hear stories of gentleness than stories of war right now anyway."

He didn't look up and she worried for a moment she'd offended him. "It was a good life," he said after a moment, his voice low and thick. She realized that he hadn't looked up because he was hiding his face from her.

She came in and sat next to him on the bed. "Do you regret leaving it?" she asked quietly.

He rested his elbows on his knees and lowered his head further. "No," he said, and she heard his conviction. "I'm glad I'm here. But …"

She waited, debating whether or not a comforting hand on his shoulder would be appreciated.

"I fear I may have abandoned one important duty for another."

"We're all very glad to have you back in Paris," she assured him. "But I'm sure it was a very difficult decision. Did you make many friends there?"

He nodded slowly, and she could see one corner of his mouth lifting. "There are seven that I miss in particular."

"Monks?"

He lifted his head to look at her. "Children."

Her mouth opened in surprise.

"One of my duties was to care for them," he said. "I don't think they quite understood why I left."

His voice stumbled over the words and she gave in to her instinct to put a hand on his shoulder. "They will. In time."

He gave a shuddering sigh. "If time is given them. They were not born into a safe country."

Constance knew that only too well. She had known many a child to perish from hunger or disease right here in the city and knew of others whose villages had been burned down or stampeded through.

"Will you tell me about them?" she asked, knowing she couldn't tell him everything would be all right.

He reached up and took her hand, holding it for a moment. "Not yet."

His voice was rough with unshed tears. She understood. "Maybe someday we can go there and you can introduce me."

He blinked and swallowed hard. "Someday."

She squeezed his hand and stood. "I can bring you some wine if you think it will help," she said, offering a gentle smile.

He managed to smile back. "I brought some up here with me," he said gesturing to the half-empty bottle on the table.

She moved toward the door, knowing she'd done what she could, and time would do the rest. "Goodnight, Aramis.

He smiled a little wider. "Thank you, Constance."

* * *

"There was a little girl there," he said suddenly over breakfast. "She reminded me so much of you, Constance. Her name is Marie."

She paused and watched him carefully. He was staring at his plate but that faint smile still graced his lips.

"She was always begging to practice sword-fighting with the bigger boys, and she was never afraid to speak her mind." He raised his head and turned the full force of his smile on her. "And she always wanted to help people. Protect them. Comfort them."

She smiled back, and the others looked a little confused.

"And then there was Luc. We'll be seeing him at this garrison before long and I'll tell him to march straight back home," he went on. "And Adele and Pierre. And little Bernard …"

Just as d'Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos had filled the evening with tales of bravery and brotherhood, Aramis filled the morning with stories of the charming things his little charges had said and done in his time with them.

Constance couldn't wait to meet them.


End file.
